Tell me a Story (Dixon Brothers & prison group)
by ArcheryLefty
Summary: I've always wondered what do you do during the ZA in winter when everyone is trying to keep warm and fed. We tend to skip the winters entirely in TWD. When they aren't busy being badasses, I like to think they sit around, play games, annoy each other and tell tall tales. Ever hear of Canterbury Tales? Stories from Daryl, Maggie, Glen, Merle, Hershel, Carl, Beth. Yes some smut.
1. Chapter 1

Tell me a story (Daryl and the Prison group): companion story to Bayonet

 **I've been having this spinning in my brain for a good 9 months, as always the wonderful characters of The Walking Dead belong to Kirkman and AMC. The OC and stories they tell are fleshed out by me but many are in the background of some of the episodes. I've always wondered what do you do during the ZA in winter when everyone is trying to keep warm and fed. We tend to skip the winters entirely in TWD. When they aren't busy being badasses, I like to think they sit around, play games, annoy each other and tell tall tales. Obviously I'm a big fan of the Dixon brothers they are just so wonderfully warped that they appeal to me in their growth and character development.**

 ** _The Decameron_** ( Italian: _Decamerone_ ), subtitled _Prince Galehaut_ (Italian: _Prencipe Galeotto_ ), is a collection of novellas by the 14th-century Italian author Giovanni Boccaccio (1313–1375). The book is structured as a frame story containing 100 tales told by a group of seven young women and three young men sheltering in a secluded villa just outside Florence to escape the Black Death, which was afflicting the city. ~Wikipedia

OC character list:

Mya: 8 year old daughter of Skya; precocious sweet and sheltered

Liam: 11 year old son of Skya: learning how to prepare game and hunt squirrels, taught by Daryl

Skya: Mother of Mya & Liam, from Ohio, worked in rehab prior to the end of the world, stranded in Georgia while vacationing with family who lived in area near prison. Smart, independent, good at hiding and camouflage. Learned how to use a bow and a hatchet before the end of the world. About 45. Took care of Merle after the governor nearly killed him, now he is teaching her survival skills.

Set midway of the 6 month span between season 3&4 Daryl and Merle are relaxing after dinner with the prison group of my AU story Bayonet. It's been a good day. Daryl and Merle went hunting and got a multitude of wildlife rodent to have in the stew. Skya hung around the prison gardening, practicing her archery, going on a short run with Michonne and Maggie. Rick was in the garden and Carl was bored out of his head. Hershel was concocting a deworming drink for the entire group being that someone came up with intestinal worms recently.

A sweet and mischievous girl wants a story as the group hangs out and digests dinner before doing their own thing.

"Tell me a story" Mya asks. "Somebody's gotta know one. What did all of you do before everything stopped?"

Her innocent question strikes everyone silent as the simplicity of the question implodes with the complexity of the changes this new world has wrought on the survivors.

Mya being 8 looks around the survivors in the prison and wonders who they were before the old world ended and this unpredictable new world began. She looks around and watches the play of expressions.  
There is Rick holding Judith leaning against the wall, his head cocked as she burbles in her sleep like a gentle stream. He smirks and his long greasy hair bounces in time with Judith. His thoughts a lifetime away as his expressions slip into sadness and regret of things left unsaid and other things done impulsively.  
Carl looks up at his father his so often angry smaller face unreadable as he waits his eyes darting between the adults like a tennis match, his clever fingers fiddling with a string from the frayed end of a pant leg, his mouth a line of schooled emptiness as if a smile or a frown would break open the box of memories in his soul; held captive and bound with chains containing a fountain of emotion as a black hole contains light.

However unlike a black hole cracks are being formed. The world still spins and children still grow in the shade of their adults; even ones with broken hearts and tortured memories. A flash of light remains as Carl remembers his teachers, video games and friends, pool parties in the Georgian summers, the smile of this mother, her eyes glowing with love for her young son.

He hears a snort from the group as Maggie playing Boggle with Glen finds a particularly clever word.

"Screw and Cueue; Beat that college boy".

Maggie's eyes are shining with love and triumph as her competitive nature contemplates winning over her more educated but less assertive lover. She has always been domineering as well as warmhearted. A combination that caused as many problems as it solved, she tucked her head down into her shoulder looking for all the world as a broody hen protecting her winning word combination. Her eyes squinted in the corners as Glen tries unsuccessfully to concentrate as she hums the Jeopardy theme.

She laughs gently as she leans on the table, her tan arms crossed against her generous breasts, her unruly straight brown hair ticking her nose causing her to twitch like the bunny that was the mvp of that night's stew.

"Not so fast; you spell Queue with a "q" not a "c", you're gorgeous but you're still a cheater and you don't spell as well as I do. I was studying journalism when this all started".  
That stops her and she considers her lover. She watches as his widow's peak that she finds so lovable falls into his angled eyes. Her pupils dilate as she feels bittersweet with all the lost opportunities that the end of the world caused. She sighs smiling as she is newly impressed with his intelligence as well as his big heart. The end of the world has taken so much away but she has gotten only one thing in return, she would have never met the love of her life any other way.

"Y'all mute, this li'l girl asked ya for a story and ya sit there lookin at one another like a bunch sheep; bout as brainless too"

Merle chuckles to himself as half the room jumps as his loud rasping voice bounces off the walls. He sits next to Skya and Daryl watches him from the shadows behind them while whittling some new crossbow bolts. Merle stretches and tries the oldest trick in the book, unfortunately backfiring on him due to his missing wrist and hand as he brings his arm across her shoulders to hang over her trying to rest on her curvy form. She startles a little laughing as his plan backfires on him, being that he is concentrating on adjusting his boot sheathe for easier access. His mind playing tricks on him telling him that his hand is still attached as his attention is elsewhere.

"Are you volunteering Merle?"  
She the lowers her voice and adds sotto voce "Merle I didn't know we were back in the 1950's and you an awkward teen trying to not so smoothly cop a feel".

She leans hard into his handless arm letting her voluptuous form rest on his right side noting his poorly controlled wince from the pressure on his healing ribs and back. She wonders if he will always feel soreness, but reminds herself that healing takes time.

He is glad for her to not verbalize what she notices. He finches more than his brother does, although he never had done so before his injuries. He always was a confident ballsy sonofabitch with no softness and precious little in the way of inner warmth. He gave up on being loveable decades ago.  
The ancient white scars leave a roadmap covering his body; it tells the story, he doesn't need to say a thing. He never needed other people after trust had been beaten out of him when Daryl had been born. He fell in love once in his life at the age of eight; when he looked into the identical blue eyes of his newborn brother for the very first time.

The rest of the world chewed him up and spit him out, educating him that he was unlovable and not worth the time. He put his efforts into making sure that his sweet little brother was worth something even if it was too late for Merle. He perfected hiding under a camouflage of drugs, sarcasm, loveless sex, and brutality that somehow never found its way to the core of his being that still contained his love put away in a box covered in chains.

He realizes that he is becoming what he worked so hard for so many years to prevent a sappy weakling ruled by his feelings. If this just ain't a bundle of shit he thinks. He shakes his head as he fixes the buckles and laces on his boots to allow easy access for a three fingered man. He should have never been saved, or at least he should have died of respiratory failure or infection. He shrugs his shoulders feeling the strain of his newest scars pulling along his chest and his back.

He angles his neck feeling the crunch of his extensive arthritis that no one knows about, gaining a look from Skya as the clicks and soft pops become audible. He thrusts out his jaw but raises an eyebrow in amusement how he knows that she can read him but is equally sure that she will keep yet another secret for him. No one needs to know that the world chewed his bones up too, and that he is starting to notice that they crunch as he stretches and moves.

"Y'all never wanted to lissen to me before but shit I guess I can find some stones and tell ya something about something".

Merle snorts thrumming with amusement ironic really that he actually had a captive audience that weren't trying to tear him a new one. He reminds himself to thank the little girl. He guesses those kids might be good for something other than waking him up too early with their ear bleeding shrill little voices. Funny how he still tolerates the little shits better than the grownup asswipes.

"My grandpa grew up living in the woods and he taught me to hunt, and I taught it all to Daryl. The old man had some stories, boy. Shit the crap he had me believin' when he took me ta the woods before Daryl came along. He taught me forest legends and moonshiner stories they believed in these parts long before my great grandpa was a little shit. I'll let Daryl tell you about the Chupacabra being that he has more firsthand knowledge about it, or was that more knowledge about particular edibles from nature".

"Shut up Merle"

The quiet response comes from the shadows as Daryl squirms under his skin wondering when Merle will ever let him live down the night he took shrooms at 17. He saw a Chupacabra walking through the tiny town, blood dripping from its jaws, a canine grin on its face. He has so many times thought about the memory and knows that he saw what he saw. It couldn't be a dog or a fox or a coyote, nothing was right about the damn thing. He was pulled from his spiraling thoughts by Merle clearing his throat and working up to no doubt a smut filled story.

"Y'all know the story of Moonshiner Jack and Hell's finest daughter? Well it happened right here in these mountains".


	2. Moonshine Jack & Hell's finest daughter

**_So this is the first story told. Merle and the others are bored out of their heads. In future chapters others will take turns telling a story or maybe just telling about themselves. Maybe there will even be a point of view observation of a story being told from another characters' POV, maybe an observer who we don't yet know and no one notices. I might even take suggestions. Anyone you want to hear from? Just let me know. OH yeah being that Merle and Daryl and Hershel and Michonne are my favorites they all definitely get a turn. Merle will definitely be a not so silent listener/heckler. He might plan on behaving but his naughty nature won't allow it._**

 ** _As always reviews are the most delectable of rewards and it will always make my day I love to her what Im doing right and it helps me to get suggestions especially since Im trying something a bit different here. Enjoy peeps! Lefty_**

Moonshine jack and Hell's finest daughter

Merle's Story

Jack was my Granddad's buddy from a long way back. Both born and raised in these mountains, spent the summers, treading the mountains and coaxing spirits out of the hills that will pickle yer stomach and ferment yer brain.

They were born back in the 20s back when being part native was no damn joke, distilling moonshine was part of their livelihood and avoiding the revenue officers was the high part of the game. The revenue man I will call Dick because he was a puffed up bantam rooster way too impressed with the power of the law. He didn't even notice how much of an idiot he was. But then most people who are truly impulsive idiots are clueless until way too late. He loved the power trip which was his high and he was drunk on it pretty near all of the time.

I better make this shit clear since most all y'all are city folk and some of ya are even Yankees. Heh. Moonshine has a long history here in the mountains of north Georgia. It goes back to the first white men coming to this area about the time of the revolutionary war and sometimes it was the difference between feeding the family and listening to the cries of hungry children. Jack was in tune with the mountains and streams, living off the land hunting when he was hungry but never taking more than his fair share. When Jack and my PawPaw were young men the depression was happening and prohibition was hot on its heels. The taxman and the moonshiner were hell bent on winning and were armed to the teeth.

Now moonshiners have their own code of conduct, and their own rules, they don't like outsiders all that well. The prohibition had cemented these rules in that no one would talk to the sheriff or the revenue officers for that meant the loss of their freedom to have a damn drink if they wanted it like a grown damn man. The tiny hill community that Daryl and I sprung from had been even tinier back then and everyone knew everyone but yet no one was able to tell who was brewing up in the mountains coaxing the distilled magic of white lightning out of the bones of the mountains under the protection of isolation and darkness.

"Ya sure this ain't yer story Merle?" Daryl called smirking from the shadows thinking that "Jack" sounds pretty damn familiar after all.

Merle regarded his little brother remembering the sun lighting his mother's grey eyes as she told this story to Merle as she put Daryl to bed as a child. Her words fell into a familiar rhythm as she told her best story about the mystery of combining the mountains soul and the crops of the land into the balance of poison and pleasure.

"Nah lil' bro, I could tell them about how long it took ya to get outta diapers or how often ya pissed my damn bed. Ya sure ya don't want ta hear about Jack?"

"Stuff a sock in it ya aggravating piece of shit" Daryl hummphed grumpily and forced himself to silence, always a better idea when dealing with his mouthy older brother.

Merle pursed his lips waiting to see if his little brother had any more to add, ready to rile him further to maybe get him to blush in public.

Lemme see now that I was so rudely interrupted. Yeah that's right we were just getting ta know Dick who was hired by the jackass Sherriff now his name might be Rick or it might not.

At this Rick looks up and narrows his eyes Merle chortles unable to avoid the urge to rile the volatile Sherriff who caused him so much pain impulsively. He looks around the audience as he settles back into his storyteller rhythmic pattern; shifting his stiff joints adjusting his cuff into a position of less abrasion to his all too sensitive stump.

He regards his audience one by one as he takes in Hershel's amused ironic glance in return. He notes that Glen and Maggie have abandoned their game in favor of listening to him. He watches Beth and Zack edging increasingly further away from the settled group in order to find comfort of their own. Skya shifts in response to him readjusting himself; he notes her gentle hiss of discomfort as she shifts her healing broken arm. Her children are still curled up with her; cuddling with their mother while listening attentively to the abrasive, rude redneck.

Merle continues with his story.

Dick and maybe it was actually Mick - we'll go with that for tonight anyway. They were looking to invade his operation and Jack was done bent outta shape about it. He had a cabin by a waterfall sunk into the ground and like a ground squirrel he had several escape routes. He was talented at his craft because knowing when to stop distilling and feed the mash was an art handed down from father to son and the recipe was guarded with your reputation in the small community; much the way a woman jealously guarded her recipe for peach pie crumble. Jack's moonshine was crisp with a hint of peach that only he knew how to add. He and PawPaw were infamous for the best shine around and equally able to slip away like ghosts in the fog.

Dick though was a wily old shit; his life spent apprehending fugitives like Jack. He was exceptional at his trade and single minded. He was so consumed with shutting down the illegal moonshine operation town by town until he found his way up to the mountains of north Georgia along the Appalachian Trail. He was obsessed to the point that his wife left due to long abandonment and found another to warm her bed. So Dick was angry and full of sexual pent up frustration that fueled his desire to kill jack and ruin his business for all.

It was personal with Dick you see, he grew up in a household ruined by moonshine, the eldest son of a coal miner and the daughter of the preacher. Religion and alcohol fueled beatings were served up early and regularly in his upbringing until his Father died in a mining collapse and his mother had to split up the family; sending Dick to work assisting a traveling preacher. He learned his letters and more importantly a strict sense of morals while travelling with the preacher. He was taught to see Moonshine as the path to hell and the ruination of society and families. He fought for the prohibition of alcohol and was horrified to see the immediate upsurgence of Moonshine distilleries in popularity as a direct result of implementation of the law.

Jack however was not having any of that and was ready to serve up a heaping dose of Irish diplomacy mixed in with native woodcraft. Jack saw prohibition as the elimination of his freedom to relax with a drink, the restriction of his lifestyle and corruption of his enjoyment of camaraderie amongst his friends. Jack had made Dick look like a fool in front of the townspeople too often. How many times did he return from a sprung trap to see Jack walking arm in arm with several women of his fancy down the street, laughing and not seeming to have a care in the world? How many times did Jack tell poorly veiled stories making the authorities out to be incompetent assholes? How many times did he have Jack surrounded, only to have him disappear as if into smoke. How many times did he track Jack only to find he led himself into a newly abandoned hideout with a peach smell leaving no doubt to who was recently working there. He knew that Jack's resources of people and the network of mountain culture was equally difficult to penetrate as an unwilling female porcupine.

Jack would beat his adversary and preserve the freedom of producing mountain spirits without being taxed by the government that was only an intrusion and never an improvement to mountain lifestyle. Jack paved the way in community with storytelling, and promises bought on the back of liquid gold that rolled down the gullet smooth on peach laced fumes. He made sure that he had multiple stores and stills hidden in the most unlikely of places. Some were cradled in the arms of the mountain and others were watched over by the spirits of those who had traveled along the Underground Railroad to Northern freedom.

Merle has the gift for gab but most who knew him in his addled drug fueled years didn't know that he was gifted with storytelling as many who grew up in the Georgian mountains are. He mostly was previously known for his crudeness and ability to manipulate others to completely lose their shit: an unfortunate hobby that earned him the hatred of many. But under that abrasive exterior was the heart and instincts of a skilled storyteller. Merle was just warming up. He paused and regarded his audience; all were focused on him and wore open cautiously interested expressions. He chortled inwardly, laying the bait as skillfully as he tracks his prey.

Jack was a backwoodsman born and raised in the mountains and most at home in the caves and streams in its hills, he could melt into the rocks and trees like a ghost and his greatest weapon was not his guns but that what connected his ears. Yes indeed he was a smart one. He had a gift for music and loved to sing, beguile others with his stories, and play a mean hand of cards. He even could please the churchgoers with his knowledge of the bible, and his ability to sing any hymn. He was a fixture in town and liked by all. His excellent brew warmed the stomachs of the townspeople in the long cold boring winter months and was a fixture of many summer parties.

Jack never planned to settle down, freedom was his first love and his spirits were high but his love for women in all forms was higher. He loved equally the work of distillery, bargaining with farmers for his supplies to make the mash. He enjoyed wooing the town girls, married women and women of pleasure. He was the lover of many but none could make him their own. His love of risk and freedom was greater still than his lust and worship of the female form; he never did get tired of the sweet nectar of all forms of peach. He had a reputation too people thought he might be part squirrel because he could climb while pulling his pants up. He slept with many a man's wife and never got caught tasting the sweet sweet fruit of the sugartit tree . . .

At this point Skya reacts to the increasingly graphic sexual description elbowing Merle in his sore side causing a barrage of coughing and cussing as he grunts and holds his newly healed ribs

"Damn girl why ya going and doing that here we were all comfortable listening to ol' Merle winding a nice old Georgian legend . . .here you are attacking an injured man."

"Merle, do you recall that my 8 year old daughter is the one that asked you for a story and I would appreciate you keeping it rated PG for her and the other kiddos listening. I know you're a dog with 5 legs but please rein in the smut factor if you will . . . "

Merle watches Skya ; huffing but secretly delighting in raising a reaction from her, although somewhat painful in nature. His eyes are crinkling in the corners as he tries to earn sympathy from her volatile mother bear like reaction.

Mya is curling up at her side with a blanket wrapped around them both, her platinum blonde locks mixing with her mother's auburn waist long hair, her gentle snores reverberating on her mother's form, the frosty air rising from her slack mouth. Skya snorts at merle not falling for his bid for sympathy.

Although it has only been little more than three months since the Governor shot him through the chest and broke several of his ribs, as well as deflating his right lung and causing a long recovery; Merle has healed well enough to return to active duty within the prison community. Yet he has pain remaining in his damaged bones and large scars that pull his skin and makes it difficult to find a position of comfort.

Merle points his uneven jaw at the little girl even as he stretches his stiff shoulders and ribs as the soreness from Skya's surprise elbowing fades away as she drops her hand on his thigh grasping him gently in apology and invitation.

"Yeah girl, I'm thinking her snoring might drown out any bad influence from yer buddy Merle. Come on yer distracting everyone from mah story. Now where was I?"

Merle settles back down regain comfort in Skya's warmth in the cold winter night watching his breath mingling with hers. He silently considers his audience more attentive than he was prepared for as his Mother's favorite story again takes hold of him. He takes his cuff off stretching and rubbing his uneven stump as he considers his next words.

Hershel clears his throat "I would like to hear the rest of the story Merle. It's a good one so far. I think I can even tolerate your, Ah flavorful descriptions of the characters. By all means continue if you will".

Merle smirks "Nice to know at least some of ya understand and appreciate a hot spicy flavor like 'Ol Merle"

Hershel, Glenn and Daryl shake their heads in unison looking similar to a trio of bearded goats. Mrs. Mc Mannis and Mrs. Mac sigh in acceptance and frustration in the erstwhile soldier from Woodbury that has so radically changed since they knew him there as one of the most closed off of the brutal men who served the Governor.

Yup Jack was doing some hard maneuvering. Months went by and the chess game continued jack would make a move and Dick would grab his supply, ruin his still. Jack would find a new hiding place."

Now those of you who grew up here know or maybe yer a clueless pampered city folk, these hills are covered in caves and underground streams, and old hiding places from the Underground Railroad. Jack new every one. Ya see he grew up rough living off the land and he was taught where all the good hiding places were by people like my PawPaw.

So Jack was finishing up his newest batch on the night of the new moon and Dick was stooping about town to figure out where to catch Jack when he was fixin' to sell his brew. It was then that the unlikeliest of pussy assed bullshit happened. Jack hung up his mountain toughness because he fell in love about this time, poor sot. He would see her way up in the brush. Maybe sunning herself maybe collecting some herbs, maybe gathering berries and nuts. She always would look up and surprise him, smile her own secret smile as if he told her a joke, wink and fade away into the forest. He always knew when she was near because the forest sounds would stop like the animals were were holding their breath.

There was always a feeling when he was near her as though something was not quite right about her, something important. He would look up to see her out of the corner of his eye and when he turned to look she slipped away.

He would call out 'What is your name!? Why won't you talk to me?' Although he saw movement yet again from the corner of the eye and he had the disconcerting feeling of the watcher finally being watched, there was no spoken answer. He would feel one breath of wind on his face, the he would look down and there was a piece of Mica. So he called her Mica and she was an odd looking creature.

You would imagine her to be tall lanky, with long soft hair the color of the sun or the fall leaves. Not so. She was a drab brown little short stocky thing with skin and hair the color of sand, with grey shining eyes and a sturdy, muscular build sure to be a good wrestle under the covers. In fact he had no idea why he connected with her but there she was smiling, touching herself then fading away as if taken by the wind.

His distilling product loved her too. He noticed that since she was appearing to him in the forest that his moonshine production increased and that it was smoother and flavorful like peaches mixed with wood smoke. It had become sweet but thick at the same time and an odd color just like her of sand and glinting bubbles. Finally one day after 6 months of the game of appear and disappear. He was changing the mash and the sounds stopped suddenly with the smell of sulphur and peaches. And a burble and burp as if the still suddenly clogged. He looked over each piece and he stood up and said.

"Well I'll be a hog's uncle! There's not a damn thing done wrong here. Maybe the damn thing got possessed all of a sudden"

He heard a light chuckle and looked up and there she was with hair all a riot with curls and waves drab but alive and silver eyes glinting in the sun. She sat there clear as mud tossing a piece of mica up in the air where a ray of light caught its facets.

"Is that your name? Mica?"

She chuckled and shrugged, and pointed at the still and belched.

He raised an eyebrow at her and poured her a sip of his finished stock.

"Kinda ladylike aren't you. Usually people belch afterward, but something tells me that you don't have a problem with holding yer drink"

She drank it down and wiped a bland sleeve over her face. Licked her lips and took two steps over to him held his face in both her hands and gave him a kiss to incite bumping uglies. He could imagine that tree, mountain and stream all rising and further offering up energy as a response to their explosive primal sex and suddenly the silence became a cacophony of woodpeckers all driving home with a not so silent thrusting of sound. Ummm humm that's what Im talking about.

Daryl was huffing in less than sotto voce as he completed his bolts and squatted next to Merle's position on the benches

"Hey Merle I know damn well Momma never told this story this dirty now ya done fixin ta ruin it. Ya forgit you got young ears here? Get back to the damn story or yank one off in yer own damn cell, ya disgusting old handless jizz pirate"

Merle looks up from being lost in his story with the unconscious rising of his always ready sex drive. He thought that Skya looked delicious tonight with her messy hair and hopefully if her little ones continued on their sated sleepy snoozing maybe he could have some enjoyable sex although not quite as rambunctious as the humping as in the story, due to Skya's broken arm and his still tender ribs.

He notes the amused glances of the younger listeners such as Carl and Ian, but equally uncomfortable looks from the parents and more traditional listeners. He shakes his head thinking that if some of these damn sheep would throw open their steel trap minds and remember that with the end of society comes the end of judgemental morals, maybe they wouldn't be so damn boring. He always felt that he should have been in his prime in the mid sixties and early seventies when his love of sex drugs and rock n roll would have been better accepted. He never quite fit in with his large sexual and pharmaceutical appetites, certainly not in the bible belt of the Georgian mountains where traditions ran deep to the core and deviation had not been accepted during his upbringing.

"Alright folks I'll tone it down. I know Merle is too hot for all ya'll to handle. I forgot we have some upstanding churchgoers here. No fear this was my Mother's story it's actually a love story as unlikely as it is for me to know one. So it's for you to figure out. Is it the love of the still or the love of the mysterious women? Ha now that is a GOOD question."

"So where was I again?" Merle considers the ending of the story and hears his Mothers soft voice in the back of his mind again rising and falling; seeing himself as a child nodding off feeling comfort in his Mother's ability to help him relax into sleep.

Jack noticed when he was working the still she would appear and watch then fade away with her eyes glinting once before she disappeared into the smoke of the still. He always thought that he just turned away and then she was gone blended into the woods as hill people are likely to do. She never spoke, but she made sounds like the earth she chuckled belched snorted huffed and mimed what she wanted. She would always kiss him well and leave a gift. Maybe a piece of mica, a fossil but never a footprint not even in mud.

The cat and mouse chess game continued with Dick, they were evenly matched, the mountain distillers with Jack the most vocal and exuberant of the lot versus Dick and the uptight brainwashed power hungry lawman, trying to steal the pride and soul of the Moonshiners. Now the moonshiners gained its most strange ally. The daughter of the mountain itself Mica the living spirit of the volcano. She was a hybrid born out of the love of the hibernating volcano and the mountain stream, personified by Jack's still. The smell of peaches and wood smoke woke her and the unwitting gift of fresh and smooth moonshine being poured onto the mountain soil gave her physical form. How ironic that Dick caused her to leave the shell of her cave and take form as a humanlike two-legged creature. He poured out and set fire to Jack's stock yet again, but the moisture and fire combined with alcohol pleased the elemental spirits and they gave birth to a gift of their own.

Jack noticed now that when others in the wood they would pass him by as if they were chasing something else, and he no longer was losing his production. Summer turned into fall and winter marched on with the unpredictable drizzle he went to the hiding area of the long ago escaped slaves. He would hear a chuckle and turn to see her there just outside the door, but this time she came in and sat on the narrow bed sipping her drink that by now was always pored.

He never saw her eat, even when he did and she never got drunk, she never smelled like moonshine no matter how much she ingested but always like peaches and smoke. She sometimes would hum tunelessly under her breath until he was forced to sing and she would smile and clap her hands then pull him down into an overheated embrace. He never felt her skin be cold and she never wore more than a simple tan dress with no shoes.

After making love she would stand up in the simple little room in his many different hiding places. It always was the same, she walked over to the door and between heartbeats she would fade with a loving look in her silver glinting eyes with no trace except the smell of peaches and wood smoke.

He knew that she was something other than human but he wouldn't let himself know; the signs were there no footprints, not even in snow or mud, never cold, never speaking or eating. She always looked and smelled the same; she appeared too quickly and vanished nearly in front of his eyes. She had a love affair with the still but no ill effects not even seeming drunk it was as if she drank water.

His closest friends including my Grandfather were beginning to doubt his sanity and they were noticing that he spent more time in the mountains than he ever had before. When he came to town he was distracted and no longer as interested in the many flavors of women he used to sample with abandon.

They suspected he was hiding something in the mountains but the small community was unable to determine what or more importantly who because no one's wife or daughter was behaving differently or came up pregnant.

And so life marched on for several years; Dick made himself at home in the small community and Jack became gradually one with the mountain and increasingly harder to find or predict. He loved the mountain spirit and she silently loved him. He reveled in her mystery, unique beauty. Whenever he got used to her she would surprise him again. She would boil water in her hand, she would blend into the colors of the cave wall, she would heat the cave to warm him as winter howled outside.

He would hunt and bring back food and she would never eat it smiling and shaking her head her eyes glowing in amusement and sipping her drink. The only nourishment she ever needed. To bathe she would bathe in snow or the most frigid mountain stream and she would cross her eyes as she turned the droplets to mist as she instantly dried her riotous tangled hair. In her embrace he grew stranger and more feral becoming one with the mountain and the spirit of the moonshine. As he became more complacent in his dealings with humans his talent with brewing spirits increased as if he was distilling his own essence bit by bit into the still.

Jack was getting bold due to the seemingly permanent ill luck of Dick the revenue man, and his feeling of protection by the mountain spirit. He grew complacent and nearly participated in his own doom. Finally one night it happened by gunfire and the failing of machinery. He drove at his usual breakneck speeds through the mountain roads in an ill maintained borrowed vehicle. Dick had finally found who lent him his transportation and he caused it to crash. The car and moonshine lay on the side of the road combining fuel and moonshine in a pool of danger and risk. One spark would have ended it all but Dick was a lawman intent in victory as well as public humiliation of this quarry. Finally after several long soul diminishing years all his efforts were rewarded with luck.

Jack was able to get away from the vehicle uninjured but dazed and vulnerable, cornered by the revenue man he was finally shot while running and was taken into custody. He was pinned to the ground by a bullet through his leg. He lost consciousness as he began to bleed out but instead of dying he woke up in jail waiting what was sure a quick trial for a date at the hanging tree. Through the bars he saw her shining silver eyes calling him silently over to her.

She finally spoke in a rough quiet voice with an odd inflection "I am hells finest daughter and this night will give sacrifice for the maker of the the earths nectar" with that she bit his lip and took some of his blood into her mouth and faded away with her hand s touching his face. And oddly enough a key appeared in his mouth.

"Don't go what the hell are you" . . . an invisible hand pushed his hair off his face.

"Your love gave me life and I take one back with me. I am Mica the daughter of earth. I am fire and passion and the bubbles of the still. I am the smoke. You see me when the smoke from the nectar releases its passion to the sky with the orgasm of the field and the fire. Drink your hooch and you are tasting my orgasm. I could only be in your form while silent and hungry. Now I taste your blood and require a life to save yours. "

It turns out that later that night the revenue man followed a naked girl up into the mountains hot springs where she stood waiting for him with her arms wide and her breasts bared, as he stepped into the water, the dormant volcano belched and opened up a rift in earth's crust shaking blue ridge and sending a grey plume of smoke up into the dark with the smell of smoke and oddly enough peaches as a grove of trees also got devoured. His car was discovered a mile away from the caves with a large rock of mica sitting on the seat.

And Jack what became of him do you think? Not much. My grandfather was worried about him. He lived a life hiding from the law producing the best peach Moonshine the world has ever seen. But something died within Jack when Mica sacrificed her physical existence for him. The law never again caught up to him, now he lived as if invisible. He still sang and danced; told stories had wild sex and drank. He did it with complacency instead of passion and joy of life, his moonshine sold and he lived comfortably enough, protected by the townsfolk.

One spring decades later, he didn't come back down and there was no peach moonshine to be had after revivals and during long lazy stories. No Jack dancing, No singing of his pure tenor voice. He had disappeared as surely as the volcano's daughter Mica had done before him. They looked for him in all the hideouts, the caves, the springs, the peach groves, the cozy little cottage.

They finally they found him next to the swallowed geothermal lake where Mica was last seen. It turned out that he went to sleep one winter night deep in the mountains and was discovered in spring as if still sleeping. He has a cup of moonshine in his hand and a rock of Mica oddly enough in his shirt pocket right over his heart, a smile on his face. A small bare footprint was in the mound of sand next to his body with an imprint of a small person as if laying next to him for comfort. Jack was at peace. The townspeople buried him right there in the place that he loved most. If you would ever visit his grave you might just find a small bare footprint that might belong to a tiny woman and I wouldn't be surprised if you might find a small lump of mica next to his grave. You see the daughter of the volcano, the finest daughter of hell, never forgets.


	3. Tortuga

**It's been too long ! (Real life & writer's block). I know it feels so good to get back to posting something. The time frame of this story is winter between season 3 and 4. We never got to see what they do in the winter when the walkers are presumably torpid with cold and the focus is on surviving the cold and hunger of winter without the benefit of stores. How do they pass the time without technology? How do non humans see the walkers? I know I have an odd style and I am interested in unusual things. YEP!**

 **As usual please review I get very few and it means the world to me. Thanks are due to those who do take the time to read this weird little story. Yatta Yatta not owned by me, owned by Kirkman and AMC. I just let my imagination run rampant in the same place that Merle likes to hang out and heckle people (his take on people watching). OH yeah Merle and Skya both like to cuss and small smut alert this time.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **Lefty**

Tortuga

Skya looks around the group finishing with dinner; beginning the most challenging part of the day; the biting cold of the night. At night there was increased quiet in which peoples' thoughts stalk them like a vicious cat; sneaking up unawares and the lashing out with a paw, disturbing their already tenuous piece of mind. To complete the image Skya noted that the prison population was warming themselves together resembling several litters of puppies all piled in a heap for warmth.

The group now gathered most evenings near the makeshift fireplaces to huddle up and be warm, basking in the glow of each other while sharing body heat and humanity. Some split off to play cards and others enjoyed games, while most sat and listened to the stories and philosophical discussions.

The more restless ones spent time making things, fixing others, and mending clothing. There was a never ending parade of work to be done around the prison to keep 20+ people fed, clothed, alive and not stinking to high heaven. It also took teamwork and ingenuity to keep the mechanical support system for the prison and the vehicles running effectively.

It was very common for the younger men to be working together fixing spare parts under the watchful gaze of Daryl or Merle. Skya smirked to herself as she considered dredging up an old story or making a new one from scratch. Merle was sitting next to Liam at the chessboard watching him challenge Carl and Rick. He was snorting icy vapor of frustration as he watched Daryl try to teach Zach how to clean a firearm without dropping pieces on the floor to collect dust bunnies in its newly oiled parts.

"Godammit numbnuts how the fuck did the Governor even let you out by yerself if ya cain't even tell yer left from right. Ya done spilt oil over the whole freaking thing."

The toddler Emma was peeking out of the lap of Elise McManus daughter of Alice the librarian as they sat listening to stories.

"Numbnuts!" she crowed with a delighted smile. The prison residents all whipped their heads around in shock as Emma showed off her burgeoning verbal skills and simultaneously demonstrated the dubious effects of the Dixon lexicon as Merle snorted and coughed with laughter over at the chessboard.

"That's a girl after my heart; ya warm my soul "lil sweetums".

Skya watched as several games starting up Michonne and Sasha played a game of Rummy with Glen and Maggie. The latter was chuckling into her hand with Michonne rolling her eyes toward Shasha at the complete lack of a Poker face. Maggie of course didn't care what others thought with the notable exception of Glenn and her father.

Glenn heckled the pretty young farm girl,

"The more you wait the less I think you have anything except mischievous thoughts and a cute little nose.

Maggie's eyes glinted as she saw through the obvious ploy at distraction and her proud feminist side figuratively cracked its knuckles for a pleasant challenge."

"If you think I'm so desperate for your approval that I will let you win because you have a nice ass, think again, Yankee boy." With that she licked Glen's cheek trying to distract him further.

Michonne bent her face and nodded into her dreds knowing that she was perceptive enough and witty enough from her background as a paralegal to not allow the young lovers to win. However she had already decided to amuse herself and to lead them on while she honed her skills at manipulation. Still getting used to living in close proximity with so many; a blush rose to her dark cheeks, uncomfortable with such blatant PDA.

Sasha, grumbled

"Come on Maggie all the walkers will stop stinking before you finally make your move".

Maggie glared at her with a saucy smile.

"Dream on. You're just trying to get me distracted watch and learn y'all. Try that sequence 2-3-4- and oh look here hearts AND diamonds" Glenn observing the interaction chuckled,

"All that sweetness and she has brains too. I am a lucky lucky man"

"Not so fast pizza boy" Michonne lays down a meld of 6 cards and then they notice that she only has one card left. It's always best to hit them before you see them coming.

"GOTCHA. HA" she bellows the loudest noise anyone has ever heard her make.

Rick and Merle are shadowing Carl and Liam to help them with strategy, enjoying the for once friendly competition.

"Ya want to do that boy?" Merle rasped "Ya better rethink that pawn, friendly junior over there might look like a hilljack but there's a brain in there just like the old man. Ya'll never see it comin'.

Rick looked up swaying gently as he bounced his leg clicking his boot heel slightly on the floor. Merle smirked to himself as he thought about stuffing said boots up the fine officer's ass when he paces on a sleepless night.

"Yeah yeah redneck, not sure that you'll get away with making jokes about my son. You best be careful and WHO do YOU think you are referring to as an old man, you've got 15 years on me if it's a day"

Rick gets up and stretches groaning as the soft clicks and pops become audible then settles back down on the rickety bench next to his son.

"Shit man and you're calling me old when you sound like yer bones are cracking like eggshells"

"Shaddup Merle" Rick softly grunts, "Focus on teaching Liam to win. He needs all the help he can get".

"That's right Carl you think it through make sure you protect that king".

Rick Michonne and Glen were the resident card sharks. Merle could be counted on a game of Poker or chess, while the others preferred rummy. Several of the older ladies would play Parcheesi or Yahtzee. Liam and Carl would frequently play Chess with Rick and Merle watching and effectively participating as the kids' partners, enjoying the indirect challenge of the other.

Daryl would most often be whittling crossbow bolts, his eyes glittering in the direction of the chess board or checkers board, his analytical nature causing him to express his opinions in huffs and snorts as the players made moves that he didn't approve though it was not in his nature to interfere directly. They would note that the deeply set blue eyes glittered more intently from under the fringe of his unwashed bangs.

Skya spoke up, with boredom wearing on her in the growing shadows. She straightened up her shoulders feeling a twinge at the base of her shoulder blade along her healing broken arm.

"I want you to challenge me. I want someone to give me a sentence. Just one sentence and I will make you a story with that one sentence."

Tonight it's Skya's turn for lack of any other interested participants. She sees the residents of Woodbury (Alice Mc Manus the librarian) She raises an eyebrow at Skya.

"You sure you're up to going up against an old biddy librarian girl?"

Skya smirked knowing very well that she was up to the challenge having a vast font of knowledge and a creative, curious mind. She knew herself to be one with unending supply of curiosity and was fascinated with most things, ideas and people. She suffered from the fault of excessive enthusiasm and always being in search of the next new thing. Part of this was the residual of her traumatic brain injury following being shot while she was relaxing in central park on a glorious spring day.

Most people had more of a problem of embracing change, but Skya had more difficulty remaining consistent. This was the interesting thing about her career. She had always embraced change; whether it was zoological research, or analyzing blood samples or solving peoples' shortcomings through the appropriate application of therapy. All of these paths insisted on strength of will (some might call it stubbornness) and an intensely creative spirit. She also was gifted with an excellent memory and an enthusiasm for all things out of the ordinary. The result was being a bullshit aficionado, who can lead an audience with her words, a talent that has entertained her kids and friends over the years.

"I think I can rise to the challenge, after all it was I who asked for it."

The kind old librarian was frumpy looking but her bland face hid a razor wit and a love of the inappropriate. The personality quirks often undermined the role she was forced to play on the job, but many a townsperson in Woodbury harbored a new found respect for her when they found her alone in the library, reading soft porn graphic novels and listening to thrash metal in her native German tongue.

"Very well let's see what you make of this - He woke smelling like shit under the woodpile".

". . . and go!"

Skya's mind went through a kaleidoscope of ideas twining and separating and finally grasping an idea more close to home than she originally considered, musing how a thought pattern can take a life of its own. She spiraled down to a host of senses spiking her olfactory and visual centers and she focused on her memory of a pair of eyes in a beloved face that she hasn't gazed on in more than a year.

She stretched her arms wincing as the healing left radius settled into place in her healing arm. Cracking her back as her muscles pulled at her scar on her right lower back. Skya silently groaned as she felt her damaged bones arthritically crunching into alignment happy that Merle didn't hear the pops and feel the grinding of her bones. He would have saved it for later and would have given her no end of crap about it as if he didn't give her enough about stupidly falling on the run to the nursing home and fracturing her left (dominant) arm.

She cleared her thoughts exhaling as she centered herself turning to her audience angling her deaf side away from the others. She narrowed her focus to play her story through her mind's eye. She was sure that the owner of the sweet little face was still alive. She mentally crawled into his house with him and smelled the freshness of the air, hearing the odd sounds as she watched him wake, stretching his limbs and his consciousness calling him forth as surely as the bright warm sun was a beacon to his instincts. Skya's attention refocused hundreds of miles away and she could almost smell the huge lake less than a mile from her house, the grape leaves just unfurling and the strawberries ripening. She thought of a spring day 3 months from now and began her story.

She spoke . . .

"He woke with the spring from his muddy nest under the woodpile in a composted garden that smelled a little too much like shit. He was hungry from his long deep sleep his recently reconnected blood supply shunting input to his empty and shriveled stomach. He saw the light of the sun bathing him in tender light. He gaped and greedily accepted oxygen as he began the onerous task of digging his way out of the garden brush pile, cracking the dirt of his hibernation hole.

He smelled the air noting the pervading odor of rot more cloying than usual, his simple reptilian brain aware the change but not filing it as an important detail. He reappeared from an opening in the pile of brush over his nest; his stumpy legs and strong feet stretching his cold muscles driving him forward into the light. He paused looking at his surroundings smelling again the increased rot, an unusual odor for spring. He heard very little of interest, but if he were of a more astute intellectual species he would have paused with the crushing silence, punctuated with an odd moaning and groaning as if in pain.

He heard a moan getting louder and pulled his head and his limbs back into his safe zone, freezing as he did with the jointed lid slamming shut for added safety, his red eyes squeezing shut with an annoyed hiss escaping his pointed nose. A footstep lands near him shaking the ground, and another and another until a multitude of feet so similar to his two legged creatures but so categorically dissimilar in odor, touch and movement. Waiting is implanted deep within his nature. He is patient as he is stubborn.

"What kinda story is this Sweet Nips? Ya gonna make us guess what tha critter is? I think yer talkin' bout a damn turtle. They're only good for eatin' and eggs, dumb as a rock and ugly as sin!"

Mrs.' McManus responded in kind to the irascible older redneck brother.

"Why Mr. Dixon while all things as ugly as sin seems to be your comfort zone, I think Skya might know more about reptiles native to Ohio than you do. You are maybe not so familiar with the northern eastern box turtle with red and orange patterns on its shell, or maybe the spotted turtle with beautiful yellow spots all over their shells, looking like a field of dandelions. Besides you just had your turn at a story a few nights ago. While I like trading dirty jokes with you as much as the next person, I find it refreshing to hear a voice that is not yours for once."

She nods to Skya and winks at Merle while the others chuckle, as Merle snorts and walks away from the chess game heading upstairs where he can hear but not be observed in Skya's cell.

"Do continue girl . . . we are all listening"

Skya then gets up, her strong sturdy frame flickering in the light of the fire as she poked the coals as she thought. "

"Okay I'm on track again. We were Merlerupted when the hero of the story was closing his door against the walkers. And Merle was right he is a turtle but not ugly. He is an eastern box turtle and very beautiful. Nor is he as dumb as you would think. Yes most definitely simple but he does know his humans even if it might only be because of treats. Still I miss him, the kiddos loved him too. Anyway back to the story . . ."

"Hours passed before the odd smelly groaning two legged wandered away from his yard. He opened his door waited and smelled the fresh green grass and the growing scents. Out popped his nose followed by his red beady eyes common with all the males of his species. He blinks in the spring light of mid morning the warmth bathing the scutes of the dorsal shell. He ambles slowly about on weak legs stiff from the long winter sleep.

If he were a more inquisitive species he would notice the thick silence pervading over the world. There was no hum of technology connecting the frenetic business of the strange two legged creatures. He didn't notice that the garden was oddly unkempt. His human loved to fuss with the green leafy things. He wasn't intelligent enough to wonder where she went and where the small clumsy two leggeds who seemed to gather around her. There were no ankles to nip at and no warm hands lifting him to peer inquisitively into his red beady little eyes. There were not delicious things magically deposited out of the cold humming thing in the middle of the warm bright room. They used to carry him inside for visits, newly awakened in the spring, placing him on paper, giving him treats, touching his brightly patterned dorsal shell as he used to munch contentedly.

He knew that the messy garden still supplied juicy red fruits that he sank his beaklike jaw through; painting his little face like garish lipstick that sometimes his two legged thing liked to wear. His shrunken stomach felt satiated as he sat on a warm rock in his garden. His core temperature rose in the sun now that he wasn't sitting in the thick smelly mud. His inquisitive little nose picked up a warm blooded scent nearby in the brush. Out hopped a small brown rabbit wiggling its inquisitive nose as the turtle gorged himself on the strawberry feast. They had in the past both been dinner guests in the human's yard, her children used to point excitedly and watch the rabbit and the box turtle grazing together as day embraced dusk.

If one of the human's spirits, were in the garden today she would notice that the yard was trampled with many feet and that there was a lone walker caught in the fence reaching and pulling at his clothes but unable to think of how to get himself free. His stringy hair was hiding his rotten nose and blackened teeth. He wore, designer clothing, that might have been appropriate for a tourist to the vineyards of Ohio. He finally pulls himself free from the tangled fence, his rotten shirt giving way to his enthusiastic pulling, he face plants in the mud grunting as he unexpectedly kissed the earth but took no more note of it than the turtle took notice of his smell. He ambled away uneventfully as his instincts pulled him away from the quiet yard to follow the herd of his brother and sister dead amblers.

The rabbits mouth explodes with sweetness as she bites into another slightly overripe strawberry; the lives of the 6 kits inside of her safe for another day. She faces outward her shivering brown back near the safety of the large brush pile, her babies inside of her dreaming deeply under the beat of her heart, twitching and stretching as they experimented with moving their tiny muscles. They didn't know it but they have about a week to twitch until they are born during a tumultuous rainstorm their mother thankfully will move her nest under the abandoned shed of the missing humans.

The turtle had been lucky a year ago when the virus first stealthily appeared. If he hadn't been hibernating he might have been trapped indoors, like so many of the beloved animals in the wake of the virus. The human's first noticed the virus when so many got sick so quickly. In the house three doors down from the turtle's garden an all too common tragedy unfolded as the turtle slept, deep inside the brush pile.

The man came home from work and may have felt a little off, played with his kids before going to bed early. He stayed home the next day as a mild virus turned into a full blown respiratory distress that later hospitalized him. Then his wife started getting a tickle in the back of her throat. The two little girls were running a low grade fever and stayed home from school but thankfully the baby was fine. The mother and daughters took a nap together and the toddler died in her sleep only to come back and start gnawing on both her older sister and her mother. The mother having been bitten and watching her older daughter's die tried to call the neighbor to come and get the baby before it was too late. Luckily the elderly woman across the street was still fine and came over to check on the woman.

She had heard the baby crying alone in the playpen outside before the mother turned and began feasting on the baby. The horror was plain on the neighbor lady's face as she watched the mother who had finally turned feasting on the daughter's entrails before turning and disemboweling their beloved labradoodle, the blood staining her beautiful sandy coat crimson. The cat watched and hissed from under the couch as the walkers feasted. Finally the two legged monstrosities were able to bump their way outside to create chaos elsewhere. The turtle was luckier than the lizard inside the house; she was trapped in her beautifully appointed tank. The lights dimming as the power grids stopped shedding light on the devastating bloodbath of the first days of the outbreak. The lizard being a desert animal lasted 5 days without water, dying of thirst trapped as the human family turned on each other and the baby, having been left out in the yard was rescued by a neighbor.

If a sentient human had been present in the turtle's yard they would have watched in hiding as the herd passed through trampling the new grape vines slowly ripening in the fertile soil on the shores of Lake Erie. The winter had been unusually cold with temperatures well below freezing. The rotting shambling husks were weaker this spring than last with more pieces missing and their numbers declining. Most of the north had been abandoned with a few hardy groups remaining living in hand to mouth existence, more wary than the rabbit. The hunters have been knocked off of the food pyramid as apex predator, now starting their precarious existence as the newest prey species. Homo Sapiens Familiaris gave way to Homo Sapiens Mortis as the top of the food chain.

The turtle being a quiet little animal munched on peacefully unaware of the dramatic shift of the world in the kaleidoscope of scents and simple thoughts. He continued his feast blandly watching as his friend, the pregnant rabbit, hops back to the shelter of the brush pile. Later he ambled to the lengthening shadows in the sun: returning into the brush pile again as the nearing groans heralded the progress of the herd bumping their way through suburbia on the banks of Lake Erie.

THaaats all folks"

Skya looked into her daughter's face again musing how lucky she had been to be on vacation when the virus hit, and to have been indoors with a migraine when the first herd swept through taking her husband and in-laws in its tidal pull. If she had been home she would have likely been at work and dealt with multitudes of dying old ladies in the nursing home she worked. She would have taken her kids to school or to daycare, and if she would have tried to leave she would have been trapped on 90 westbound to Cleveland along with hundreds of other cars. Yes indeed either she would have died at work, or maybe her kids would have come home bit and caused the worst of scenarios as they would have died. Either way. Being the mother grizzly that she is Skya would have died protecting her kids.

"Seriously Skya you gave the stinking things a name? I like you bunches sweetie but your brain is warped"

Michonne's eyes sparkled as she teased Skya. She had enjoyed the short story odd as it was, however disturbing seen from the eyes of an abandoned pet, waiting for his owner even if he didn't realize that he was missing her.

What she considered disturbing as Skya blushed and smirked is the turn of the world in a way that she hadn't yet stopped to consider. Yes indeed there is a new species roaming the land causing the destruction of all recognizable human existence. Now that society has fallen it has been replaced by tribes and gangs and clans. So far the only groups that the prison tribe has met have either been as shy as the rabbit in the story or led by a bloodthirsty psychopath.

"Well not everyone thinks like a scientist, you wish you were that cool" Skya replies as Rick and Michonne (who had taken over for Merle) shake their heads in silent amusement as they shadow the chess game of the young teens."

Mrs. Mac the erstwhile Woodbury librarian sits silently with her head cocked like a curious mother dog regarding a wayward puppy.

"Well girl that was the last thing that I would have considered you being able to come up with. It's interesting about how the cold affects these monsters. I wonder how far they have to degrade before the things lose the ability to move and how long it will take before humanity rebounds."

Hershel considers the interesting points that Skya raised in her story. He can see that before being medical she definitely was a research scientist.

"Let me see here. Obviously the virus gave chemistry a kick in ways that science does not consider as possible. Muscles can't contract without life, if the monsters rot then they are not going through the chemical processes that are required for muscle contraction or for binding of proteins on a cellular level. The stimulation of nerves and therefore the reaction to noise or fire or scent of human beings in should be impossible. But without a team of scientists we may never know what that would be. We can see that their bodies wear down from damage and weather but that does not stop them from being hazardous to the humans in their path"

The discussion drones on as Skya guides her kids up to their room, sleepy from the early darkness and the overly technical discussion from the old veterinarian and the librarian, their eyes shining with an attraction that only the others notice. As she tucks her children in she feels distracted by feelings she had buried for a year, she can almost smell the early spring of her long lost home. She hears the seabirds from Lake Erie and feels the beach sand under her feet as she searches for drift glass with her kids.

She watches her kids sleep the light from the downstairs fire flickering on their closed eyes making their freckled faces glow. She closes the door protectively as she turns to the cell that she recently began sharing with Merle. He began sleeping in her bed several weeks earlier keep him warm during his recent bout of pneumonia. Now however she doesn't want to admit to herself and him that he is again healthy, and she is the one who needs the comfort of his warmth during the cold nights, as she is stalked by heartbreaking dreams.

Skya's POV

I wake up from the most improbable of dreams. Experiencing the horde of walkers conflagrating on my yard just as my wonderful Box turtle that we called Tortuga or "Tuga" gradually is released from his hibernation. I would have dug him up a month ago and brought him inside but I dreamt of early summer at home, the strawberries just ripening the grape leaves just beginning to grow. My Turtle blinking his little red eyes and dirt dropping off his beautiful patterned shell drying in the sun as he painted his face in strawberries, the juice making him look as some industrious little girl applied lipstick to the lipless critter.

I sit there in the cool morning gooseflesh creeping up my back my arms shivering as I choke down sobs and shake off the mourning for my old life the home, the people, the pets that I will never see again.

"What's doing juicy? Why ya sniffling like a prissy little girl?"

"I dreamt of my turtle hibernating in my strawberry patch. I used to love watching him eat the ripe berries from my garden.

That gets a snort from the filthy minded Merle

"Sweetnips I would love to hibernate in yer strawberry patch, but I thought ya were a brown girl."

That gets a slap from me and a very pleased chuckle from him finally getting me to react to his crude but spirited humor.

"Gotcha sweetness" go back to sleep ya silly little freak unless ya want to treat me to some of yer tasty berries"

I rolled over on top of him bearing my chest with my red berry like nipples conveniently parked in front of his scruffy smirking face, inviting him to bury himself in my strawberry patch.

"I happen to have saved two berries just for you . . ." I gasp as he pulls me toward him snaking his stump around my back leaving his hand free to do justice to my ripening chest.


End file.
